


Under the Skin

by Starlithorizon



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Character Study, Could be triggering, Drug Use, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-17
Updated: 2013-03-17
Packaged: 2017-12-05 16:03:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/725172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Starlithorizon/pseuds/Starlithorizon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The habit wasn't a cry for attention. It was his way of hiding from it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Under the Skin

**Author's Note:**

> This was a concept I've wanted to work with a bit more closely. I hope the tags are enough.

Once upon a time, long ago, and in a galaxy that was actually this one, there lived a broken man. He was a creature bred of terrible thoughts and people who didn't understand. His was the mind that never stopped, that _couldn't_ stop. Sometimes, he just wished for it to _**Dear god, please slow down, please, please, please, it's too much, please**_. No one understood this miraculous curse—he could barely understand it himself.

That wasn't the worst part, though. Oh, how wished that it was.

The _habit_ wasn't a cry for attention. It was his way of hiding from it. This skinny kid who was more ego than person, this swirling brain with the eviscerating tongue, this frenetic mass of energy wanted nothing more than for people to just _stop looking at him_. He had spent so long under the cruel scrutiny of schoolmates, family friends, complete strangers, and it made him sick. It shattered him. Fissures ran along his skin, and he was so damn fragile (and afraid).

He had scars. Childhood bullies, adolescent bullies, a dawning horror with who he was. Monster was branded into his skin. _Psychopath_. _Horror_.

One was actually carved into his back in secondary school.

 _Freak_ didn't have to cut beyond the skin, as it was cut _into_ him. He had screamed, he had writhed and screamed and begged, but he hadn't cried until he'd staggered home. His shirt was plastered to his back by blackening blood, and there was a sheen of sweat over his face. His mother had driven him to hospital, where the deeper wounds had been stitched shut.

He had been sixteen.

The cocaine, the morphine, the terrible chemicals dancing under his skin acted like a cloak. It was a child's philosophy: if I can't see them, they can't see me. All he saw in the crystalline haze was the puzzle, and the escape. His veins constantly itched for more, _more_ , _**more**_. It was never enough, and it was eating him alive. But god, it felt good. It was fucking _ecstasy_ , and it drowned out very nearly everything. The grinding of gears in his skull, the constant tornado of data, the words he had turned in on himself like knives. They sliced so neatly, they did, drawing so much blood.

There were other scars soon, shadowy bruises in the crooks of his elbows. The skin there was so delicate, like sheets of rice paper, so easy to tear. He didn't tear the skin, simply slid the needle home like Excalibur in the rock. And then the rush, so like/unlike adrenalin, bloody gorgeous. It sparkled along his edges, simultaneously softening and sharpening them. Tempered him into steel.

He moved through university, excelling and exceeding and feeling so extraordinarily proud of himself for keeping his habit secret for so long.

If Mummy found out, though...

Mycroft knew right away, though, the fat git. Sherlock hated him, almost as much as the rehab facilities he was continually cast into. They talked about addiction and attention and a _disease_. Sherlock knew better. He could stop when he liked without any trouble. He stopped and started continually, but he didn't realise that it was because he kept quitting and relapsing. He ignored the addiction humming on his nerves begging, pleading, screaming for that fix.

He nearly died from two separate overdoses. Mycroft had saved him both times. Mycroft had kept this secret for him, had covered for him whenever their parents asked after him. Mycroft paid the rent on his flat until each landlord decided enough was enough. Mycroft "dealt with" each and every dealer with a problem with his baby brother.

Mycroft watched after his brother like it was his religion, and he mourned the steady loss of the brilliant idiot. It wasn't until he stumbled into his current profession that he started pretending to improve. He went longer between relapses. And then he finally found Greg Lestrade, and that was the push to end the deluge. There was still an addiction lurking beneath his skin, but he was holding out. He was adding new names to the hideous ones written over the old scars. _Genius_. _Hero_. Eventually, _friend_.

Later, though, Sherlock took the word etched into his back like wings tucked against his spine, unfurled them, and flew. He flew for three years, continually tempted by the horror and the shadows and the misery. But when he came home, Sherlock Holmes was a different man, made all the stronger.

He'd found a new chemical defect to replace the manufactured one, and it was enough for the rest of his life.


End file.
